A/N: For pairings in Lady's Writing School. Also for Drooble's Best Blowing Gum in owluvr's Honeydukes Competition.

Have you ever had a fic that was going great until the halfway point, where you realised you had no idea how to end it? Yeah...that's what this is. Because it took me so long to write, I feel that it might be a little disjointed. So please review, tell me what you think!

The first time he notices her is a beautiful morning in the middle of May.

He turns up at Hogwarts as the sun rises over the mountaintops and the clouds lighten a thousand different shades of pink. He looks at the school he called home. There are walls blown apart and smashed glass and broken windows and crumbling pillars and it's in ruins, Hogwarts, it's completely fucked.

He can't help but feel bitter and angry. This was a safe-house. This was home to so many children and they came and they just- they fucking- they destroyed it. He knows he should be happy that it's over, and he is, deep down, but he's angrier that it happened in the first place.

Every morning for the past few days, he's had the same rant on a loop in his mind, the same furious tirade that draws back the faces ingrained to his memory. The Carrows and their twisted sneers, Dolohov and the murderous glint in his eyes, Greyback and that bloodlust that spread across his face. There is an angry flame in his veins that burns because of them, that burns against them, and he places all blame at the feet of every Death Eater, every sick, evil monster, every fucking Slytherin he can think of.

You shouldn't be thinking that way, Michael, he tells himself, but he can't stop the accusations in his own head any more than he can stop himself from breathing.

"Mr. Corner?" calls McGonagall, and he remembers where he is. He turns to where she stands.

"You're early. Good. He can assist Ms. Davis here with the Quidditch pitch. Just clear as much of the rubble as he can. Professor Flitwick will be with you in a few short hours to help reconstruct the stands. Good luck."

And she's gone in a whirl of her navy robes.

He look at the girl that McGonagall called Ms. Davis and try to place her. She looks familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. It's like he's looked at her, but never really seen her.

Shame that, he thinks. Pretty.

"Are you going to keep fucking staring or are we going to get a move on?"

And, suddenly, he remembers.

Slytherin.

They work side by side in musical silence, only the tap tap clunk of the floating rubble filling the air. He can feel her behind him, but he doesn't look at her.

He sickens himself. Even after all he's been through, after everything that's been said and done and everyone that's died, he's still being so bloody, ridiculously judgemental. And he really want to turn around and look at her and not feel like screaming at her for her betrayal, for her hatred, and his mother's face flashes in his head and he knows that she's safe now, it's okay, it's all over and his mother is alive and well, and Davis had nothing to do with the Death Eaters or the war. Probably.

"So, you're a Ravenclaw then?" she says after an hour of nothing but heavy breathing and muttered spells.

"Um, yes."

He doesn't want to ask her about her House because he knows she'll say Slytherin and he's just not ready for that. He's not ready to pretend he's okay with that.

"Well if you're so bloody smart, how come you never noticed me?" she asks.

He shoots a glance at her. She's got her hands on her hips and a scowl that somehow seems menacing and warm at the same time, as if they are old friends and she's just teasing him a little. She quirks an eyebrow in his direction and the scowl melts away, replaced by her bright smile and a glint in her eye.

"Oi, Corner, this is the second time I've caught you staring today. Better stop or I'll have you done for harassment."

And with a flick of her wrist, rubble is flying through the air and the wrongs are righting themselves and the conversation is over.

Flitwick and Hagrid arrive soon after and relieve them of their duties.

"Splendid job, Ms. Davis, Mr. Corner! Hagrid and I will finish what you've started. If you're hungry, lunch is being served in the Great Hall in ten minutes. Best get a move on!" squeaks Flitwick, already beginning his charm work.

Davis looks at Michael with a small smile.

"Lunch?" she asks.

He swallows loudly. She's not the enemy, he reminds himself in an attempt to stop the no that teeters on his lips.

"Why not?" he replies.

And really, why not?

She sits on his right at the Ravenclaw table, something he finds incredibly odd. He doesn't question it though, because, if he's honest, she scares him. What he does question is why everyone seems to have forgotten that the four long tables have a reason for being there.

He looks towards the Hufflepuff table. Harry Potter is sitting there with his arm around Ginny and Michael smiles sadly. She looks so happy, so pretty. He doesn't miss her, not really, but she was a good friend before she was his girlfriend, and it hurts that he doesn't talk to her anymore.

She catches his eye and waves, and he gives her a small salute and an even smaller grin; he doesn't think it's appropriate to beam at a girl who's just lost her brother, no matter how happy seeing her makes him. But Ginny beams instead, motioning him over to her table with a wave of her hand.

The blow to his ribs is quick and harsh, and he looks toward Davis in horror.

"What the bloody hell was that for?"

"You can't leave me here," she says calmly. "It's rude to leave your date alone."

"Date?" he responds. He doesn't remember this part at all, but he fights to quiet the voices that hiss, "Date with a Slytherin? I don't think so," and other such nonsense because, well, look around, Michael. Harry and Ginny at the Hufflepuff table with Longbottom and Abbot and Macmillan and Granger and Lovegood and Merlin knows who else. He looks further up the Ravenclaw table. Cho sits with McLaggen and some older Gryffindors he vaguely recognises, and beside her is a quiet Slytherin girl who looks no more than fifteen and has her face buried in Hogwarts: A History.

If they can all move on and mix it up and put it all behind them, then so can he. Right?

"I don't recall asking you on a date, Davis."

"You didn't have to. I could see it in your eyes," she teases.

And from there they fall into easy banter. He finds it easy to tease her back because she's so tough, so thick-skinned, and she just laughs off his insults and jibes like they're nothing.

Until the subject changes and somehow they're talking about NEWTs and she says, "Well, your report will practically scream O, O, O at you, won't it?"

"Not fair. Not all Ravenclaws are geniuses," he says. "Common misconception. We just value intelligence."

"Well, well, well. Defensive, aren't we? And, just so you know, not all Slytherins are evil. Common misconception," she replies with a wink. His heart quickens and he thinks that she knows, she knows that that's all that's been echoing around his head the entire time he's been talking to her.

"What, you just value racism?" he blurts before he can stop himself.

He watches her face harden and her eyes ice over. Her lips draw into a thin line as she says, "Not quite, Corner. And I had you pegged for a smart one," and stands up. "See you tomorrow then?"

She doesn't wait for an answer.

They meet again in the Three Broomsticks a few days later.

He spots her dark hair swishing through the crowds, each flick screaming with an attitude that could only be Davis. And he's not sure why, but his chest feels oddly tight and he remembers how he absolutely fucked everything up and what can he do but run after her?

So he does.

Butterbeer in hand, he pushed through the crowds and shouts after her, "Davis! Davis! Tracey!"

She turns on the last one, one last swish of her hair and a coy smile that says she heard him all along.

"About time, Corner," she says with a wink. "Care to buy me a drink?"

This girl is going to be the death of me, he thinks, reaching into his pocket for a stray sickle or two, but I'm not messing this up again.

"So why do you hate me?" she asks. Her fingers make zigzags and smiley faces with the droplets that trickle down the side of her glass, and he likes that she's not looking at him at the moment because he is sure he is redder than a Weasley.

"I don't hate you," he says hurriedly. He lifts his bottle to his lips and downs a gulp of his warm butterbeer in an attempt to drown the awkwardness.

"Okay, so you don't hate me," she says, voice light and teasing, "But you hate Slytherins. Why?"

She's got him there. Up until recently – very, very recently – he'd have happily spit at the feet of every Slytherin who crossed his path. It wasn't until Davis came along and bullied him into maybe-sort-of fancying her - just a little – that he'd realised he was wrong.

"Well?"

"My mother is, er, muggleborn," he says quietly, the words that tumble from his lips holding a reverence worthy of confession.

"Ah," she sighs, "I see. And we want to kill her, is that it?"

She says it matter-of-factly, her voice low, and Michael hangs his head a little in shame.

"No. I mean, not you. Them. The – the others," he stutters. If he's honest his mind is still reeling from the use of the word we because in his head she's not one of them, not at all. She could be a Ravenclaw, he muses. Definitely not a Hufflepuff, but (dare he say it) she'd make a pretty good Gryffindor.

"Slytherin does not equal Death Eater," she says. "I thought you were a clever boy, Michael."

His head snaps up at the use of his first name.

"No," he mutters, "But I'm learning."

And with that he reaches across the table and grabs her hand, stopping those infernal smiley faces and zigzags from taking over the world, and wraps his fingers around hers.

"I've never been much of a teacher," she says, that damned smile back on her lips.

"Good. I never did like learning alone."

"Kiss me," he whispers to her under the stars later that night.

He's surprised at the words as they leave his mouth, but he doesn't take them back. Because Davis is not quite what he expected. When he's with her, the thoughts of war and death and rebuilding and moving on...they all just melt away. When he's with Tracey, he feels alive and as if the past is the past and he doesn't need to think about it to respect it. He just lets it be and laughs when Tracey tells a joke or smiles when she flirts with him, and it's okay.

Everything is okay.

"Why would I do that?" she teases, pushing him away and twirling around, her long cardigan fanning out just like her hair.

"Why wouldn't you?" he asks with a wink. "You know...if you don't kiss me..."

"You'll kiss me?" she asks sceptically, a twitch of her eyebrow and a smirk on her lips. "Don't think that's quite how it works, Corner."

But she walks closer to him nonetheless, the warmth of the balmy night leaving her skin flushed, her eyes bright, and she presses her lips to his tenderly and quickly.

"There," she whispers, and he can feel her lips move against his ever so lightly. "Now what?"

"Now?" he says. "Now...nothing. Now everything. I don't know."

"Me neither," she replies, and kisses him again.

And Michael wonders if perhaps not knowing is actually a good thing.

But then Tracey sighs and melts in is arms and Michael stops thinking for a very long time.

He tells his mother all about her. That she's witty and funny and she's got dark, dark hair and a way of talking that sets him on edge but also makes his heart soar, and she's the opposite of sweet and shy and maybe that's what he likes about her. He tells his mother about how they met and how she practically bullied him into a date and also how her nose crinkles up when she laughs and her eyes are sort of beautiful. What he doesn't mention is that she's a Slytherin.

He tells himself that it's because he's moved past all that, he doesn't care anymore. He tells himself that he no longer holds such prejudices and that he doesn't deem it necessary information for his mother to know about his maybe-sort-of girlfriend.

But he knows it's because his mother would feel the same way he does- did. The same way he did.

"Do your parents know about us?" she asks one day in late September, snuggling close into his chest and shoving her face into the warmth of his scarf. The sky is fading to a dusty blue and the wind is biting at his cheeks. Michael lets the silence grow between them as he tries to find the words.

"Yes. But no," he says finally, and stares out at the view beyond the hill they are sitting on.

"What does that even mean?" she mumbles, sounding tired and bored and like she's sick of this already.

"You know what it means," he says, "I've told you how they feel about – about-"

"Well, have you told them how you feel?" she says suddenly, harshly. "About Slytherins? About the war? About me?"

"Tracey," he says, and his voice is soft and low, floating over the top of her head as his hands rub the feeling back into the tips of his fingers, "You know how I feel about you. Isn't that enough?"

"No," she whispers. "No, Michael. Sometimes, I wonder if you're ashamed of me."

She's sitting up now, leaning away from his body, and he sees her shiver in the cold.

"I'm not ashamed of you! I would never be, could never be – I love you, you know that," Michael stutters, reaching for her hands.

"But does everyone else?" she asks with a glare, pulling her hands from him.

"Yes! Yes! Everyone knows that I love you! How could I keep you a secret, Trace?"

She stands up, her legs stiff and numb from the time spent curled up against him in the autumn wind.

"Do you though? Do you love all of me? Even the Slytherin parts?"

"I do, of course I do!" he cries, scrambling to his feet. "But there are no Slytherin parts of you, Trace."

"Oh, so I'm not evil and that means I don't have Slytherin parts?" she hisses, and Michael can see the anger flare in her eyes.

"No," he says. "You don't have Slytherin parts. You are a Slytherin. And I love you. Two facts."

She stares at him for a moment, the anger still twirling in her eyes, her dark hair caught in the wind.

"Prove it," she says, but she's still surprised when he drops to one knee at her feet.

"Okay," he says, "I've no ring with me. But I want you to know that I love you, and I don't care who knows. Do you hear me Tracey Davis? I love everything about you and I don't care who knows, or what anyone says. Because I love you and that's all that matters."

He reaches for her hand, and this time she lets him take it. Her fingers are shaking as he looks up at her face, and, God, she's never been as beautiful.

"Will you marry me?"

She beams brighter than he's ever seen, outshining the moon and stars above her.

"Only if I can wear green on the day."

"Deal."

And he stands and pulls her into his arms, and their first kiss as an engaged couple taste like unsaid apologies and understanding.

So his mother finds out when Tracey shows her the wedding dress – an emerald green chiffon dress that falls to the knee and swings when she walks – and she just nods a little and says nothing.

And, to be frank, Michael doesn't fucking care.

"I love her," is all he says when his mother begins to question him after Tracey has left the room.

She smiles in response.

"That's all I've ever wanted for you, Michael, dear."

And maybe no one really cares at all.

"Good morning, Mrs. Corner," he mumbles sleepily, turning to his wife as she sits up in their bed with a glass of water in her hand and a worried expression on her face. "What's the matter?"

"Do you think we can do this, Michael?" she says quickly, and his confident, sure Tracey is hidden somewhere behind this worrisome facade. She places the glass down and her hand drops to her middle, where the barest swell of her stomach is home to their child. Michael covers her hand with his.

"I doubt anyone thinks they can do this at first," he says, his tongue still not quite awake and tripping awkwardly over his words. "But we'll have to give it a shot, won't we? He's already on his way."

"It could be a she, you know," Tracey says, and her teasing smile is back on her face and Michael's morning is brighter already.

"Regardless of gender," he says, "we both know that this baby is a Ravenclaw. Can't you feel it? That's one smart baby."

"Oh, no, no, no," she says, slapping his hand away from her stomach and covering the bump protectively. "Don't you listen to him, little baby Corner. You be who you want to be."

"Exactly. Who doesn't want to be a Ravenclaw? We're geniuses."

"I thought you just valued intelligence."

"Shhh, now, Trace, I'm persuading the bump," he says, before raising himself up on his elbows and leaning close to Tracey's stomach. "Listen here, little Corner. You can be anything you want to be. I just know that you're going to want to be a Ravenclaw..."

"Oh, shut up," Tracey laughs, pushing Michael back down on the bed. "Our baby is a Slytherin and you know it."

"Do I smell a bet a-coming?" he asks, waggling his eyebrows.

Tracey pauses for a second and watches him. "Deal," she says confidently, offering her hand and beaming menacingly. "But you know I'll win, right?"

Michael sits up once more and whispers to the bump, his lips ghosting Tracey's skin, "Please, bump. Let me be right for once."

"Never," Tracey says, and pulls him up for a kiss. "Now, where's my breakfast? I'm growing you a child here. A little food is in order."

Their eldest daughter is exactly eleven years old when she leaves for Hogwarts, with a Happy Birthday! badge pinned to her chest and a glint in her eye, ever like her mother.

When Michael gets the letter that evening, he reads it aloud to Tracey as she feeds their youngest.

"Dear Mum and Dad," he reads, "Hogwarts is amazing. I have a new friend already, Lucille Macmillan – that Hufflepuff's daughter? Who's her mother? Think she's a Ravenclaw, too?"

"We don't know that Sam is a Ravenclaw yet," Tracey says with a grin. "Keep reading."

"We'll see. – and her bed is right next to mine so I'll see her all the time. I think you know her daddy, but she said her mummy's a Muggle. She says her daddy will be surprised, but I said mine wouldn't be. See? I knew it? Brains, that's what our Sam has. Tell Mummy she won: I'm in Slytherin. What? No!"

"Told you," Tracey says, smirking at him. "I'm always right."

Michael sighs in defeat. He chuckles to himself as he wonders what his seventeen year old self would think of him now, with a Slytherin for a daughter and sharing his bed every night.

"You know what, little man?" he says to the toddler in Tracey's arms. "You better be in Ravenclaw. We can't have them win, you hear me?"

"Shut up, you," laughs Tracey, swatting him away.

Michael laughs back and kisses her on the cheek before returning to Sam's letter.

He thinks to himself that it's funny how life works out, isn't it?

And he reads to his wife and she laughs and he smiles and their son giggles along. The dog dozes lazily beside the fire, the potatoes are peeling themselves by the sink, and the wind is cold but the house is warm.

And Michael smiles to himself. Seventeen year old Michael was an idiot anyway.